


Just a Minute Longer?

by Acaulix



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, DBH, Everyones a sad mess but its okay, F/M, Hank wont stop drinking, Hank wont stop swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-06 14:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15887634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acaulix/pseuds/Acaulix
Summary: 13 years in the red ice business. 3 years living a normal life. And now, 30 days to help a deviating android and an alcoholic solve their case.In an attempt to locate a ring of deviant disappearances associated with one of Detroit's forefront drug organizations, Hank and Connor have no choice but to consult you - ex drug pusher and ex daughter of Bow Romano - a high rank dealer for Hallow drug cartel - for insider information. With imprisonment leveraged over your head, you're left with no choice but to agree to help - on one condition: the android protects you with his life.However, as you sink deeper into the case the idea of Connors death becomes more and more upsetting and your desire to take revenge becomes clouded with doubt.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the shit show.

A paper folder bridges the gap between Connor and Hank's desk, skating through the small space underneath their monitors and grinding to a halt at the side of Hank's keyboard.

Hank freezes – mid bite, with a donut half stuffed into his mouth and icing sugar all over his beard – swallowing thickly and dropping the donut back into the box with an unappetizing splat that sends strawberry filling shooting across the desk. He fixes Connor a fierce stare that sends his led glowing red and spinning in circles.

Hank wipes his hands down the front of his shirt, smearing whiskey, jelly, and whatever other greasy substances he has on his fingers across the front of his grey DPD shirt while eyeing up the android.

Connor – in the midst of straightening his tie - gives an automatic smile.

"Don't give me that dopey grin, just what the hell is this?" 

Connor promptly ignores his remark in favor of pulling his tie even closer towards his neck.

"After conducting a large amount of research, I believe I have found a connection between all of the deviant disappearances that have occurred within the last two months.” Connor explains, unresponsive to Hanks foul temper. "I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter Lieutenant."

Hank seems pleasantly surprised, if not disbelieving. “You sure?” He asks and snatches the file from the desk to inspect the sticker on the cover. “Lets just hope its more then a dead end this time. Lord fucking knows this case has led down useless rabbit holes more then a few times.”

Connor sits patiently as Hank burrows his nose into the papers, scanning over the text and flipping through the documents with machine-like speed. He squints down at the lines of perfect red print Connor has written between the lines of the reports, hunching forwards in an almost comedical way with his shoulders curled in and face inches away from sliding along the paper. However, Connor understands Hank well enough at this point that advising him to meet with an optometrist would be a fruitless argument, and instead makes a mental note to write in a larger font next time – storing the information in the back of his mind. 

As Hank reaches the last page of the file his eyes widen - rapidly scanning over the diagram Connor had sharpied in at the bottom - before snapping up to look at the android with a great amount of intensity. He lowers the folder onto his lap with a sour look. "Are you sure about all this?"

The android tilts his head in a way that reminds Hank of Sumo for one unsettling moment. “All the deviants that have gone missing were located in - or close by - the Detroit area on the date of their disappearance. It is very likely that who or whatever we’re dealing with is located nearby.” Connor slides his finger over the desk tapping the open file page. “Additionally, all of the information cyberlife and the police station has provided on the matter correlates a connection to one organization.” Connor reaches over and plants a finger in the middle of his diagram where he’s circled three words in thick red marker. “Hallow drug cartel.”

Hank stares back, stunned, with his mouth gently agape. “Hallow…”

“Lieutenant Anderson?”

Hank gazes past Connor – looking slightly lost – before blinking hard and shaking his head.

“No, nothing. Its nothing.” 

Hank groans, falling back into his chair with enough gusto that the front wheels lift off the ground -balance for a few fearful seconds - and then slam back down with an explosive crack. He turns a few heads, eyes flickering between the two men – curious, but not foreign to the concept of Hank making loud noises – before darting back to their desktops. 

"God-fucking-dammit,” Hank hisses. "Connor, we can't screw around with a drug organization. Even if this is the best lead we have, getting involved with them will only guarantee our corpses turn up at this doorstep within the week." 

Connors led flickers from blue, to yellow, and back to blue again within a few seconds. He gently turns the file page onto its back where a lone name is written in red pen. 

Hank stares at it blankly. “(Y/N)?” He reads, frown lines pronounced like the name is sour on his tongue.

“Due to out limited information it was hard to locate any accessible members of Hallow, but based on the data I was able to map out the name and likely location of this woman." 

Hank leans back, folding his arms over his chest. “So what?" He scoffs, powdered sugar flying out of his beard onto his lap. He looks ridiculous with donut toppings layered into his facial hair but Connor remains poker faced, sitting uprightin his chair and listening attentively. "If she’s a member its still suicide to play with her.” 

Connor leans in, narrowing the large gap of space between them. He mechanically laces his fingers together as he speaks. “She is not a member, but I have reason to believe that she had ties with someone directly associated with Hallow. His name is Bow, and he’s a high-level dealer who works directly underneath some of their more prominent figures." Connor's led spins yellow as he leans forward and presses his hands onto the paper covered table. 

"Lieutenant, I've been processing the case for days. With permission I was able to access her legal files, and it seems that a few years back she had Bow’s guardianship lifted.”

“Jesus Connor - In English please?”

“For a short time, Bow must have been this woman’s legal father. Then either herself or her mother had him removed from her birth certificate, meaning the likely hood that they still have any form of relationship is marginal.”

Hank fixes him with an unreadable look, crossing his arms across his chest and sinking deeper into his chair.

"Lieutenant, if my information is correct, the likely hood that she has information - however limited - is significant. This woman may be the most promising resource we have to find out what happened to those deviants." Connor presses a little more. "We have no other options.”

Briefly, silence settles between the two of them – Connor still will his hands gripping the desk and Hank still directing a dead stare towards him. 

After a few agonizingly tense second Hank swivels back to face his computer, and begins to type without a word, opening his computer and scanning his authorization key underneath the monitor. He searches through the deviant files as Connor watches him through the low opacity of his monitor.

"Lieutenant Anderson?"

"You're bustin' my balls here kid. Seriously.”

He tears through the rest of his donut with the ferocity of a carnivorous animal, fingers banging on the keyboard in record speed as his screen flashes up different files, all of to which he promptly curses, closes, and then resumes his search.

Five minutes of silence pass before Hank glares at Connor – “Stop staring so hard would ya,” he growls– and drops his hands onto his desk like a deadweight, rattling the drop leaf and sending Connor's sensors spurring into motion. His vision is momentarily clouded as his system goes into threat detection autopilot, blinking rapidly to refocus. 

The older man shoves away from his desk. "I've gotta know Connor, why are you suggesting this? I suppose you being a specialty android is good leverage, but any territory involving criminal organizations is way over our departments head."

"This woman is the most promising lead we have to find a connection between Hallow and the missing deviants." Connor says, sensors still cooling down. "So long as Hallow themselves are not involved I see no need to involve other departments."

Hank shrugs, fishing his hand through the half-empty donut container before resurfacing with another powdered donut. "Sure, but arent they worried about us accidentally poking the beehive?"

Conner bristles in a manner that almost looks offput. "I do not intent to let that happen Lieutenant."

"Ah Christ," Hank snorts "They let you solve a couple cases and suddenlty you think you're hot shit huh? Whatever, If this woman has even a hint of information I'll squeeze it out of her myself."

"Then what do you speculate our next move should be Lieutenant?"

Hank rolls his eyes, as though his response should be the most obvious thing in the world and shoots Connor a strangely aggressive smile.

"Well if its up to me," he speculates. " I say we go pay her a visit. This (Y/N)."


	2. Queen of Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's two in the morning, I have work tomorrow, and I've barely given myself a chance to edit this crap I'm so eager to put it out. For everyone here early, I apologize in advance for any trash grammar and crap writing. Forgive me

The overhanging light sways back and forth, caught in the looping current of the ceiling fan. it fills the silence with white noise alongside the methodical _drip drop_  of condensation gathering weight on pipes and spilling onto the floor, blades spinning in a blur of old wood hanging precariously from a thin rod in the ceiling

Your reflection stares back at you in the wall-length mirror. 

Dark bags hang under your eyes above a splatter of dried blood on your cheek and a small purple bruise taking shape along the edge of your jaw bone. In your reflection your hands twitch impatiently,  palms up between a patch of chipped paint and blue blood where the queen of hearts stares up at you from the inside of your wrist.

She's just barely visible past the cuff of your jacket - composed of smooth, twisting lines and a red face turned rosy pink with age - poised, elegant, and cruel looking her silver eyes watch you above a haughty grin, listening to the hands tick around the clock on the wall. 

Its easy to get entranced by her wicked eyes.

A green vein runs through the side of her face, protruding from the flawless skin like a grotesque scar that contorts the side of her face. You run a dirt-crusted finger over it, pressing lightly until the vein recedes with a staticky sensation and crusted blood chips from the crevices of your fingerprint. A tendon moves – her mouth twitches into an evil smile – and as the light flickers softly she flickers back.

The front door screeches open, dragging across the floor and carving deeper into the rust covered semi-circle that sweeps around the frame as a blinding yellow light floods in from the hallway. Recoiling, you press back into the hard wooden chair and shrink away from the collection of low, rumbling voices that surface from outside.

Stars shoot across your vision in burning pops of black and yellow, blinking heavily and cursing under your breath as heavy footsteps approach from the darkness. In that moment - shoving your hands over your eyes and pressing into your eyelids -it occurs to you that you ought to try and escape, to leap out of your chair and over the table - barrel towards the moving figure and rush the door - but by the time your eyes stop burning and your vision returns to a semi-clear state the door is creaking shut. It seals with a lock and bolt.

Footsteps – a fairly large man no doubt, based on the slow heavy steps and broad-shouldered outline – moves towards you from the entrance. Slouching into the chair across you he joins you at the table under the dangling bulb, spreading two gloved hands with the words  _kick ass_ printed across the knuckles between you. He leans forward and his face emerges clearly, speaking in a gritty voice. 

"Mornin' princess."

Low hooded eyelids shadow the majority of his brilliant blue eyes in the heavy lighting. A pair of parallel forehead creases and strong frown lines stand at attention as he grins, lips just barely visible between strips of coarse grey facial hair above and below his mouth. A thick Police Department sweater that looks a hundred years old peeks out from a corduroy jacket, the words  _L.T Hank Anderson_ inscribed beneath a small printed crest surrounded by various splotches of dried up stains and bleach marks. 

Hank's shoulders slump as he wiggles his left arm out of his corduroy jacket and reaches into an inside pocket, scrapping a glove inside before resurfacing with dirt lined fingernails and a comparatively cheery pink queue card with a heart drawn on the back. Despite the tacky design, there's something menacing about the way he draws out the card and lays it on its face. You pull the sleeves of your jacket down and cover the queen's eyes.

"Let's make this quick, I have things to do," He says, leaning back into his chair until the front legs narrowly hover above the ground. You blink heavily - utterly lost within the rapid change of pace - but square your shoulders and stare right back into his uncomfortably steely gaze. He clears his throat in a nearly theatrical manner.  

"(Y/N) (Y/L/N)," Hank reads off the card. 

Your blood stops cold. "...Huh?"

He looks towards you through lowered brows. "A thirteen-year long record of association with one of Detroit's most prominent drug organizations, it seems." 

Your heart rate spikes with a feeling akin to your insides bashing the front of your chest. "...What?"

He doesn't hesitate to cut you off. "-nearly 3 years of illegal red ice dealing, two known cases of assault-" 

"Wait, w _hy-_ " 

"-a falsely registered job, and blood money in the bank."

Your hands tremble on the table. 

He hums and opens the lapel of his jacket to tuck the small card back where he'd dug it out from. "Should I continue?"

_How does he know?_

Anxiety bounces around frantically inside your head as your nails dig into the thick layer of paint covering the table, peeling bits off underneath your fingernails. Your chest feels like it has a loose screw – rattling around as your heart slams up against your ribs.

_How does he know?_

_"_ Those are some serious crimes there," Hank remarks, slipping the paper back into the recesses of his jacket.  _"_ I mean, I'm no lawyer, but that's gotta stack up to what – nine, ten years? Maybe even more. As for the fines I'm not too sure," he shrugs, fishing his discarded glove back out and stretching it over his fingers, fixing you with a devilish stare. "But I'm sure it more then you can afford to lose."

The clock on the wall seems louder than ever, piercing the tense silence between you with ticks that feel like tiny explosives popping inside your stomach.

_How the fuck does he know?_   

Your voice catches in your throat and comes out as a weak rasp. "W-why are you telling me this? Just what is it that you want?"

You were so careful. Darting in between shadows and staying out of the limelight, using your contacts to bury your past under yards of paperwork, money, and cover up stories. It wasn't feasible – no, fuck it - it shouldn't have even been  _possible_ for this man to uncover such neatly wrapped details from your past. The amount of time, cross-referencing and legal work it would have required to work out the fine details would have been so grand that even a team of detectives may have needed months to piece together the fragments of your life.

You weren't worth the time. You'd been living a peaceful life for the last couple years, keeping to yourself and working a feeble part-time position to make ends meet, only traveling around in your small town of residence on the outskirts of Detroit. So why - after all this time - would the police choose to place a giant target on your back? 

"What do I want?" Hank chuckles and leans across the table with a determined look in his eyes. 

"Well, firstly, I want  _you_."

 


	3. Welcome to the Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was longer than intended and an absolute pain in my ass. The story picks up from here so bear with me if you're dying for some quality time with Connor. It's coming soon ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Everywhere around you the dust is so thick it sticks to the wetness inside your cheeks and constricts your throat until you choke on it.

Everything about this room – this place – screams danger. Hank, leaning towards you with glowing eyes like a predator watching its prey, the shadow of footsteps passing through a beam of light that creeps under the door, and the flickering lightbulb overhead makes you feel like you’re caught in a horror movie. You half expect someone to come charging through the doorway with an ax, or reach out from under the table and drag you by your legs- red lights spinning in front of your eyes and flashing a giant  _danger - this may be the scene of your murder -_ sign in your head.

And Jesus – you have never been so disturbed by a single sentence in your life.

You swallow down the dust. “You want... _me_?”

Hank rolls his eyes instead of repeating himself - as though he hadn’t just said something utterly cryptic and - frankly -a little disturbing. “…What on earth do you want with me?”

More disturbing than his lack of response is the realization that you know nothing at all about this man, apart from the name you’d deduced from his shirt, an odd pair of gloves, and the stench of black coffee all over his breath. But he knows everything about you it seems. The odds are completely stacked against you, and regardless of the situation its likely that you don't have a chance again him - in interrogation, in law, and even in a physical fight.

Despite his age, Hank is tall enough to hunch over you even while seated, and the broadness of his shoulders and arms speaks of a trained body. If he grabbed you - which, given his apparent status you speculated he  _could_ if he wanted to - you wouldn't be able to do much more then kick around in his broad arms.

But instead of lunging across the table and grabbing your neck Hank clears his throat and lays his hands on the table like he's offering a business proposal. “Bow Romano,” He says, dropping another bomb on your unsuspecting head. “That name sound familiar to you?”

Staring back at Hank you steel your mouth into an unfeeling line. Your stomach drops down to the soles of your feet. Anger fizzles up in your chest. 

Hearing his name in Hank’s mouth moves your stomach in an unpleasant way, sending dozens of ravenous butterflies into motion, striking and tearing at the inside of your chest as they try to force their way outside your body. Rage, like a flash of heat, darts through your head in a red streak. Your insides are cold as ice.

You hadn’t heard that name said out loud in years. No - not since you delivered your final package of red ice, smoked your last cheap cigar and crashed in your go-to motel – and it brought an avalanche of stomped down memories crashing onto your head with a skull-crushing weight. You suddenly felt vile, slinking into the back of your chair and attempting to hide the pathetic frown that pulled at your lips.

From the moment the police had shown up at your front door and dragged you into the back of a car you’d expected to be interrogated – harassed and mocked and sent to court with a faceless number over your head. You had even considered solitary confinement or a few weeks in a holding cell while they waited for trial results.

But the last thing you expected was for an old man to take a shovel to your head and dig old skeletons out of the closet.

 Bow Romano. That name was no more than dust on your tongue  

_Hank…you’re so cruel. And you don’t even know it_

Hank swims in your vision, inside of angry tears that prick at your dry eyes as he cranks his jaw towards the mirror, eyes hovering over you as he shouts, “Connor! Bring the folder!”

 _Not another one of these fuckers._   

Not a second later the bolts to the door click open and a young man - Connor presumably - walks in behind Hank, a paper folder with a sticker on the cover neatly held in the crook of his elbow. He comes to a halt beside Hank, placing the folder in front of him at the table. Hank sucks on his thumb before flipping the folder open, skipping to the few back pages. “2029. Until then you must have two lived together, or at least close by. Am I right?”

Your chest aches and you blink quickly to disperse your tears. “Why are you asking me this?” 

_Hank, you're so, so cruel._

Without missing a beat Connor pipes up as Hank opens his mouth to speak. “In the last two months, a dozen or so deviants have gone missing. We have drawn a connection back to Bow, and the drug organization he works for.”

Your eyes snap up to him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Paralleled by a pair of dark brown eyes is a spinning led, pulsating with blue light.

Connor stares down at you, a patch of dark hair swaying across the expanse of his forehead where he matches Hanks’ forehead lines with a blank look on his face that seems to be neither hostile nor friendly. His hands are folded neatly in front of him, shoulders square in a pleasantly straight posture. 

“An Android?” The words slip out before you can catch them.

“Yes. I was sent by cyberlife to investigate the sudden influx of active deviants,” Connor clarifies.

Your brows twist in surprise. “An android hunting androids? Huh...”

Hank huffs, clearly annoyed, and draws the attention back to himself. “The point is, you’re gonna help us find out what the fuck happened to all those deviants. Any information you have on Bow – down to the smallest detail if need be – you’re gonna to give it to us.” Hank cracks a wrist, closing the folder up with a determined  _snap_. “We-”

“You have no other choice,” Connor butts in, placing his hands on the desk.

The android moves his hands away as Hank swats at him - lets out a reprimanding, "Quit cutting me off asshole!" - and glances down at Hank in an off put manor. The situation is so bizarre – Hank scowling up at him and Connor looking back with startled puppy eyes - you couldn’t help but bark out a laugh, eyes darting between the grumpy old man and the clueless robot. “What makes you so certain I’ll help?”

“You don’t seem to understand your situation here.” Hank, thankfully, is straight to the point. "This is an offer. You either you help us, or we convict you on the spot. The choice is yours."

You grit your teeth as Connor and Hank stare down at you with narrowed eyes. 

What other choice did you have? If you're taken to court they may manage to dig up all the dirt surrounding you and your family. You could end up serving ten, twenty years even. There was no other option but to help these two assholes play Sherlock. You were screwed. Totally and completely fucked, pinched under this old man’s and his robot’s thumb.

Connor is so close that you can see his pupils constrict as he leans farther into the light, brows drawing downwards in a squint as he waits for your response. An unsettling feeling settles over your gut as you stare into Connor’s face. Within your lifetime you hadn’t had much experience with androids, apart from the standard cashiers in seven elevens and the workers you sometimes passed by in the street. Any functioning android would have reported you to the authorities the moment they detected a trace of illegal dealing within your house, so they were never welcomed by you or your family.

But it all made sense now.

Your certain Connor is prepared to betray his own kind without a second thought. There isn’t a hint of doubt or hesitation present in his low eyes – he’s truly ready to do anything he has to in order to please his creators, and finding you was only the first step. An android of such caliber working for the police department would have been able to tear through thousands of your files with authorization and piece a case for you together within a number of days. With a machine like that on the polices side you never had any hope to begin with. Neither did any of the deviants he was hunting. And if you accepted, neither did Bow.

You're repulsed by his lack of loyalty towards his kind.

But perhaps you're more alike than you'd care to admit. Can you really call yourself any better than Connor when you’re preparing to betray your old family to protect your own skin? How were you any different? 

Guilt bubbles up in your chest. Your nails scratch into the table until they hit hard metal, peeling past layers of thick paint.

But no.

 _No_.

The deviants haven’t done anything to Connor but Bow...

He deserves to fall. And if helping Connor and Hank catch a few shitty deviants will make him pay, you'll take the deal.

“Fine. you say, turning to Hank with a bitter smile. "But-" You move your finger until it rests directly on top of Connors sternum. Perhaps because he detected no threat Connor doesn’t shove your hand away like you expected him to, standing solid and unmoving beside Hank. “- Bow has some pretty dangerous connections. If he finds out about me I don’t know what’ll happen. So, If you swear to keep my identity under wrap  _and_ if your pet android is willing to protect me with his life, I’ll tell you everything I know."

"Were the ones making the demands here-” Hank protests, but Connor butts in and cuts him off once again.

“I’ll do it.”

“Connor!” Hank's head snaps to the side to scowl at him.

Connor remains unphased. “If I am destroyed I can always be reuploaded to a new model.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Her full co-operation is out top priority Lieutenant. It would be foolish to deny her terms.”

Hank bangs his head on the table - lightly - but loud enough that you catch Connors face twitch with concern. "Are you alright, Lieutenant?"

“Jesus fucking – fine! But you better be careful Connor, I don’t wanna be seeing a new version of you every God damn week.”

“If the situation becomes that dire the mission will be put on hold. Don’t worry about me.”

You let out a quiet breath. You knew Connor would accept your turns, and whilst you didn’t think you were actually in any danger it felt good knowing that you had him watching out for you. That said – you did have much larger issues to worry about now. Like the fact that these two idiots had you at their beck and call for an indefinite period of time.

“Fine,” Hank grumbles. “We accept your terms."

Connor sticks his hand out towards your chest, catching you off guard. He waits for you to take it, hanging motionless in front of your chest. "You have my word," he says softly. Hesitantly you reach forwards and grasp his hand. It's warm and soft and nearly envelops yours completely.

"Be warned," Hank adds, "If you try to escape or make any effort to double cross us and ill arrest you myself. In that scenario you won't get any protection from this plastic asshole or me, you hear?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Good,” Hank affirms and stands up with a screech of his wooden chair. He turns his back to leave. “Then welcome to the team, (Y/N).”


End file.
